The Game is On
by inshock-sherlock
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock and John are finally reunited and their attraction towards each other is growing by the day. However, as always, complications arise. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

John grasped hold of the algid saucepan handle tightly, his steady hand swiftly lifting the body of water contained within it with ease, from the kitchen sink to the gas stove that was situated a few paces right. After placing the saucepan down on the stove, he bent down and pinched the knob between his thumb and forefinger, gently turning the gas on before raising his right hand towards the ignition switch. The resultant click was satisfying as the flames rose beneath the pan. Slowly, but firmly he rose to his feet in a military fashion, pushing his shoulders back and raising his chin, bearing his face to his surroundings out of habit. He turned towards the cupboards and swung them open, observing the vague contents. Due to the sheer volume of cases lately, there had been no time to do the shopping and one thing was for sure, he would have to be the one to do it. Sherlock refused to go to the shop, often claiming that he had more important things to do whilst gazing intently down his microscope or gracefully plucking his violin thoughtfully, looking distant and angelic that even the most disruptive soul wouldn't dare interrupt his train of thought. John found himself daydreaming about his flatmate, his best friend, in a new light. This new light was not completely unfamiliar, however, for John had began thinking of Sherlock more and more since that dreaded day. The day he felt he had lost Sherlock for good. Although, these thoughts have become much more amorous. More magnificent. Thoughts that he never considered would occur within his own mind, but oddly felt right. He considered himself a straight man; nothing else. He frequently reminded himself of this fact, before drawing his attention away with other activities. Cooking was just one of these activities.

Sherlock bounded into the kitchen with the energy of a small child released into the local park, raw but authentic excitement that drew John's attention away from the stove, consequently causing the water started to over boil. His soft eyes following the carefree man intensely around the kitchen, with a subtle worry that he may knock something over causing extra work for himself, but he couldn't help but release an affectionate smile in the direction of the detective, whom was flailing his arms around exclaiming about some new discovery he had found following some close observations of a victim's clothing. John nodded passively, admiring the consulting detective's booming, yet husky voice with every syllable that was spoken. His jet black curls captured the light, creating an angelic halo-like appearance around his head. His eyes gleamed with delight, carving their way through John. For once, John started to feel unsteady as his knees began to tremble. His hand made it's way to the counter side and clasped onto the edge, making every effort to steady himself in front of the detective.

"Pasta, again?" Inquired the detective with disapproval, as he peered over John's shoulder. "You may want to turn the heat down, it's over-boiling." John turned sharply towards the stove and lifted the pan off the heat, placing it quickly on the counter whilst a sharp, burning sensation rippled through his hand. "Ouch!" yelled the tired man, shaking his hand in the humid, kitchen air before rushing towards the sink, shoving his hand under cold running water. Sherlock watched in slight amusement, but an atmosphere of protective worry washed over him as he observed the pain present upon John's scrunched up face. Sentiment. Sherlock sighed, shaking his head slightly at his own thoughts and turned his back at the man that was quietly whimpering by the sink and walked away, deep in thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock arrived in his room and closed the door behind him softly. Without releasing the handle, he paused to ponder about today's recent events. His discovery found itself at the back of his mind and the centre of it became John.

Beforehand, Sherlock believed John to be emotionally strong. Someone with the strength to not only support himself, but ten other men. Yes, he was very sentimental in his priorities that caused him to think very irrationally, which annoyed the detective rather much, but he still managed to hold himself together, something that Sherlock admired in John. Seeing John at his most vulnerable had been an eye opener for the detective, he felt he shared something with this man that he was sure no other individual had witnessed. A connection, of some sort.

Sherlock was deep in thought, and needed to evaluate these foreign concepts and feelings that were invading his mind. He released the handle that was held captive by his hand and sauntered majestically towards the violin that sat strewn across his bed. As he lunged for the instrument, his hand dragged across his soft cotton duvet cover. He closed his eyes, vividly imagining John laying by his side underneath the covers, resting his head on the detective's strong chest. He could imagine his hands sliding subtly through the doctor's hair, massaging his scalp as he slept.

The violin reached his grasp and he pulled it towards him and rested his chin on the chin rest. With his right hand, he clutched the bow and began to play a thoughtful, yet cheerful melody. The violin helped him think and today was no exception.

Those soft eyes. That heartwarming smile. The empathetic care and attention he delivers, as such would be expected from a Doctor but his John was different. His John. Never had those words been pieced together in his mind, but they seemed so right. Sherlock paused in mid-flow as he came to a sudden conclusion.

'All this time,' he thought. 'John.'

Sherlock knew he couldn't confess anything to the Doctor. Sentiment. It was dangerous, and even having John as a friend has led to them both being put into some tense and difficult situations. Anything more could destroy them both and he wasn't willing to risk that. Above all, what if John rejected him? From what Sherlock gathered, he was a straight man.

The detective sighed as he placed his violin down beside the bedside table before proceeding to fall back onto the bed and grabbed the nearest pillow to thrust over his face in frustration.

A beep echoed from deep within his pocket. Sherlock dived in to the depths and pulled out his phone. He cautiously peered at the phone as he slowly removed the pillow from his face, allowing it to slide on to the bed. It was a text, from John:

Dinner is served. Sorry, it's all we have. - JW

A smile grew on the detective's face, as genuine as his excitement has been. He began to scroll through his previous messages with John, laughing at the memories that they brought, until he came across the ones that made his heart sink.

How could John ever forgive him enough for what he had done?


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock, I know you won't see this but with a little hope, please come back. - JW

I can't believe that you're gone. - JW

Please don't be dead. - JW

Don't do this to me. - JW

I'm lost without my best friend. - JW

I believe in you, Sherlock. - JW


	4. Chapter 4

John placed the two large bowls of pasta on the table, where Sherlock was sat in anticipation. The doctor proceeded to slide into his chair on the opposite end of the table, facing Sherlock as the detective began to consume the slightly over-cooked pasta.

"Stop eating so fast, you'll get indigestion." John sighed, as he carefully moved his food around his plate.. The consulting detective looked up at John and paused whilst he swallowed his mouthful.

"John, stop worrying about me and eat your food." Sherlock said intensely, staring into John's eyes with concern.

"I'm not very hungry. I think I may skip dinner." John murmured, breaking his gaze with the detective and continued to look down at his food, trying to block out Sherlock's complaints.

"You haven't eaten much or frequently for a long time! You're wearing thin, John. It isn't healthy. You cook, but you can't consume, what is wrong?"

John glanced up, detecting the aura of concern that surrounded the detective, a rare but strangely warming occurrence that had the doctor feeling rather guilty. Sherlock stare bore into his eyes with such magnetism that drove John's eyes to become attached to his angelic face, refusing to detach themselves. Sherlock looked away, releasing John, and dramatically rose to his feet, throwing his chair behind him as he approached the window. Raindrops dripped across the windowpane, racing each other. Joining forces to create bigger raindrops, demolishing the weakest on their path to victory. The finish line. Sherlock snarled at this thought. Alone protects him, yet it had started to make him feel emptier than ever. He opened his mouth to confess his feelings to John, yet the words would not escape his mouth. He gave in, resorting to staring out of the window. Thinking.

The doctor's eyes followed the movements of the detective with an empathetic gaze. Ever since the fall, John hadn't truly felt complete. This diminished his appetite, giving him only the drive to eat the bare minimum of which he was able to survive. Three years. When Sherlock released himself back into 221b Baker Street, John was relieved. Yet, as absence made his heart grow fonder, his new affections for the detective had taken their toll. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He just couldn't, and this evidently affected Sherlock a great deal.

Sherlock had tried to change things back to how they originally were. Tried and failed. Observing John at his most vulnerable had created an attachment that the detective had never experienced, yet he was only able to identify the feeling earlier. Love. An entity that he'd never assumed would be present in his mind, in his life.

"Sherlock. I- I don't think I can tell you that." John replied, guiltily. How could he confess to the great Sherlock Holmes that he was in love with him. Sherlock, in his mind, doesn't know of love. He doesn't understand love, well, not romantic anyway. He would probably freak if he had been exposed to such a thing, especially from his best friend, Dr. John Watson.

"John. Is this due to my absence, I know that affected you badly. I'm sorry." Sherlock said sincerely, refusing to divert his gaze from the window.

"No, no, it isn't that." John replied with haste.

"Then what is it?" Sherlock inquired, turning to face the doctor whom was twirling his thumbs around, staring at his food. "What is it? Tell me."

"Forget it, delete it from your hard drive." John said hurriedly, trying to steer clear of the conversation. "I'm going to bed now."

John rose from his chair steadily and scurried off towards the kitchen exit. Sherlock strode after him, up the stairs and towards his bedroom. The detective slammed the door shut before John could leap inside, leaving the doctor to turn around staring into Sherlock's eyes, inches away from his face, his body backed up against the bedroom door. "I have nothing to tell you." John exclaimed, trying to push Sherlock's arm free away from the door handle, yet failing to shift the detective's slender arm. "Nothing."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Your change of pace in your speech and sweating is evidently pointing towards the signs of a lie." Sherlock calmly said, slowly ending in a whisper. "Tell me."

John's eyes began to dilate, pulse heightening. The detective's face dropped, releasing John from his enclosure created by his body and steadily retreated backwards. The two of them stood stiffly upright, distance between them. John opened his mouth to release some words or excuses, but he just couldn't. He stood there like a deer in the headlights, shock. Sherlock looked deeply into his eyes, partially frightened. "Oh."


End file.
